A Firefly Christmas Carol
by Harriet Vane
Summary: Pretty much what the title says, with Mal as Scrooge, Serenity as London . . . you get the drift.


Author's Note:  I wanted to get this out by Christmas, which means I didn't have a change to push it though it's usual, rigorous, copy editing process.  Please forgive any gross misspellings and the noted lack of Chinese Phrases (********* indicates Chinese, I mean, to us it's practically the same).  I'll fix it all later, if you like, after Christmas.

PROLOG:

"An what?" Mal asked.  "Is this here?"

            "It's a Christmas tree!" Kaylee said excitedly.  "Don' cha just love it?!  Can't remember last time I saw anythin' so green!"

            "No," Mal said tersely, starring at the little fur tree, which his crew had, unbeknownst to him, set up on the short table at the side of kitchen.  It was barely three feet tall, and held up by some makeshift tree stand that looked like Kaylee'd welded it together.  Book, Simon and Inara were all lounging in the chairs around the tree, they seemed to be twisting bits of wire to make a garland of sorts, River was sitting on the ground at her brothers feet, drawing intently.  It was a heartwarming scene, of course, Mal didn't really want his heart warmed, ever.

            "An I can't remember the last time I seen anything stickyer and more like ta catch fire on my ship."

            "Aw, Cap," Kaylee said.  "How kin ya say that?  It's Christmas time!"

            "I can say it 'cause it's my ship an' I don' remember anyone askin' me if it was Ok ta bring in a ***********"

            "Captain," Book scolded.  "Don't you have any Christmas spirit."

            "As it happens, no, I don't.  Don' much care for the birth of a savior who never saved me from anything."

            "You don't have to be religious to celebrate Christmas," Inara said, glaring at Mal.  "The holiday's also about friends and family and . . .

            "Greed and commercialism and the slaughtering of perfectly innocent pine trees," Mal finished. "Why am I even standing here discussing this.  _Serenity's my ship and . . ."_

            "Look Simon," River said, holding her sketchbook up so her brother could see it.  "I drew an angel."

            "River that's beautiful," Simon said, looking at the drawing and stroking his sisters hair.  

            "I want to put it on the tree," River said. "Is that ok?"

            "'Course," Kaylee said, heading over to the siblings.  "Le'me see."

            "No," Mal snapped.  "I don' care how pretty that there angel is, it ain't gonna go on the tree, cause the tree's goin' out the air lock!"

            Mal felt every eye focused on him with an angry and disapproving gaze.  But he was not going to budge.  

            "We'll put this up in you're room, _Mei mei," Simon said.  "It's beautiful."_

            "But I made it for the tree," River protested.

            "Can I see it?" Book asked.  Simon passed the picture to the shepherd. "Oh, River, this is amazing.  I had no idea you could draw that well."

            "May I see?" Inara asked, leaning closer to the preacher.  "Oh, River, I don't think I've ever seen a prettier angel."

            "Show me," Kaylee said, hurrying away from her displeased Captain, around the tree, to where she could see the drawing.  "Aw, River, ******.  Cap'n you . . ."

            "If you try'n tell me I gotta see this amazin' drawing of a ****** you can just save you're breath.  I'm goin' ta my cabin' an', when I come out in the mornin', I 'spect ta see this tree gone, understand."

            "Now, Captain," Book started.

            "Understand?" Mal said viciously.

            "Yes sir," Kaylee muttered.

            "Good now," Mal snapped.  "I'll see ya'll come mornin'."

            No one wished him good night.

THE FIRST GHOST

            Jayne Cobb was dead to begin with.  This you must understand or nothing that follows will seem wondrous to you.  He had been executed years ago and Mal, along with a mob of bloodthirsty citizens who were sick and tired of outside folk bring trouble into their town, watched.  Jayne was not as guilty of that crime as others had been, but then, he was not as clever as other's had been, and he had committed more than his fair share of mortal sins so who is to say he did not deserve it? Mal certainly would not have said so.  I will not say he felt no emotion at seeing his friend of many years and many adventures hung, but I will say quite truthfully that he showed none as he gazed at Jayne's corpse sway in the wind as he hung from his neck.  

            Jayne was dead as a hatchlock, though what about a hatchlock is particularly more dead than say, an airlock seal (which often is often devoid of any type of life giving oxygen).  But who am I to question those who coin the phrases so I will say again that Jayne was dead as a hatch lock; a fact which Mal was very, very aware of.

            Mal was a tight, cold hearted *****.  He ran a tight ship and he ran it efficiently.  His reputation was of a merciless mercenary and it was well earned.  He kept a small crew, a pilot and a doctor, who kept his ship floating through the sky, but it was a ship, not a home, and they were employees, not a family.  Mal made sure that this was very clear.

            "Doctor, you got our next job planed yet?" Mal demanded, storming into the infirmary and startling the nervous yet brilliant young man.

            "All most, sir," the boy said.  

            "I don't pay you for almost, boy," Mal spat.

            "I, I know, sir, I'm sorry," Simon said, his voice humble, his eyes on the ground.  "It's just River, she . . ."

            "She's locked in her room, ain't she?" Mal demanded.

            "Yes sir," Simon said, "But . . ."

            "But nothin'," Mal said.  "She's a useless mouth that I feed an' keep in some very expensive medicines so's you can come up with you're ***** plans."

            "I know sir," Simon said.

            "Now, if you stop doin' yer job, I might just stop feedin' her, or maybe stop with the medicine."

            "It'll be done by the end of the day, sir," Simon said quickly.  "Long before we reach Flagstone."

            "You see it is, boy," Mal said.  "Or else your sister might be sufferin' some interrupted nights sleep."

            "Yes sir," Simon said, turning back to his computer screen.

            Mal turned and started heading towards the cargo bay.  He didn't get any further than the commons room before he ran into Wash.  

            "Hey!" the pilot said.  "You know what I just realized?  We'll be on Flagstaff on Christmas Day!"

            "Really?" Mal snapped.  "An' what's that got ta do with anythin'?"

            "Well," Wash laughed.  "It's Christmas.  We could all go to a local bar and enjoy some eggnog, Mal, real eggnog."

            "I don't give a damn for real eggnog," Mal snapped.  "Come to think of it, I don't give a damn for Christmas."

            "Don't give a damn for Christmas?" Wash wined.  "Come on Mal."

            "Ya know, Wash, we've known each other fer years now, and I there have been precious few Decembers we ain't had this conversation."

            "Yeah but, Mal, don't you remember what you're missing."

            "I don't care what I'm missin'," Mal snapped.  "I don't care ta remember an' I don't care ta have this conversation, ever."

            "What can one cup of egg nog hurt?"

            "What can it help?"

            "You're disposition, for one," Wash sniped.  

            "Probably not," Simon ventured.  "He's a surly drunk."

            "That's 'nuff outa you," Mal yelled.  "Get back work!"

            "Yes sir," Simon said.

            "Wait, Simon," Wash said.  "You'll go have some egg nog with me, won't you?"

            "Well, I," Simon said nervously, glancing at the captain.

            "He ain't leavin' the ship," Mal said.  "Them's the rules, you know that."

            "This was supposed to be a safe place for them, Mal," Wash hissed.  "Not a prison."

            "Lots a thing ain't what they were supposed ta be," Mal said.  "Things are what they are."

            "Fine," Wash spat.  "Well, I'm going to go and enjoy the holiday and the eggnog, and maybe some rum punch and you can't stop me."

            "I don't give a damn what you do," Mal said.  "You keep Christmas in you're way, I'll keep it in mine.  Do we have an understanding?"

            "Yes sir," Wash snapped.  Turning to the doctor, he managed a smile.  "I'll see ya later, Doc."

            "Thanks for stopping by," Simon said.

            "I thought I told you to get back to work," Mal snapped.  "Might I remind you of a young girl who costs lots but does nothin'?"

            "Yes sir," Simon said, but before he turned back to his nefarious planing, he bravely cleared his throat and said, "Ah, Captain, Sir?"

            "What?" Mal snaped.

            "I was just thinking, since it'll be Christmas when we reach Flagstaff, it would be nice if, well, if River could possibly . . . maybe . . . come out of her room."

            Mal glaired at the young doctor hatefully.

            "I don't," he amended quickly, "I don't mean that she should go out of the ship, but it would be nice for her to come up into the cockpit, maybe, at least see the outside.  Eat dinner on a real table, run up and down the stairs in the cargo bay.  I . . . that is, she . . .she'd really appreciate it."

            Mal's face was red, his lips were pushed tightly together and his eyes were cold as ice cubes, "Why you even askin' that question boy?  The answer is, as always, no."

            "Sir, I'd be with her the whole time," Simon pleaded.

            "Now listen, 'cause I'll say this but once. "I've had more than my life's fair share of her crazy nonsense mutterin' and the sick sad look you get every time you're near her."

            "You haven't seen or heard her for nearly—"

            "No," Mal said so sharply the boy winced.  "And that's final.  Ya understand?"

            There was a long pause as Simon looked spitefully up at his Captain, but the threats of earlier, of River without medicine, without food, were ever present on his mind, and if she suffered a small prison, at least she suffered it with steady meals and full night's sleep.  "Yes sir," he said, his voice tight and furious, but not mutinous.

            "Good," Mal said, turning and heading up to the kitchen, not wanting to go the same direction Wash had.

            He ate his dinner, dry flavorless protein bars with warm flavorless water and headed to his bunk without seeing another living soul, which suited him just fine.  He walked to his quarters and prepared to kick open the hatch so he could go to bed. 

            Now, Mal had been kicking open his hatch for many, many years and it always made the same sound, a sort of pop and a creek.  But that night the door instead, said "Aw, Mal," very distinctively and quite clearly with the voice of Jayne Cobb.

            Mal froze.  The noise was so clear, so distinct, so unmistakable that, for a very few seconds, Mal was uncertain of weather or not Jayne Cobb actually was standing beside him complaining about one directive or another.  But then, the image of a man who's saved you're life on several occasions swinging almost gracefully from a gallows is not a memory a man would make up, or forget.  "******" Mal muttered as he climbed down the hatch.  

            He got undressed unceremoniously and climbed into his bed as he would any other night.  Still, before turning off the lights, he hesitated.  He didn't like hearing the voices of dead crewmates.  He wasn't particularly eager to hear what they had to say.

            Still, Malcolm Reynolds was a man of cool reason and hard logic.  The notion of a ghost haunting his door was a little beyond his cool reason and hard logic, so he turned of the lights.  

            A second latter they turned on.

            "********, Whirring," he muttered.  Turning off the lights again.  And again they turned on.

            "Fine," he yelled, presumably to the ship.  "I can sleep in the light!"

            "I actually prefer it," the unmistakable voice of Jayne said.  "Easier to wake up, case somthin' happens."

            For a long second, Mal could feel his heart stop and his blood run cold.  He blinked several times, but did not turn his heat to the right towards Jayne's voice.  "Am I dreamin'?" Mal asked.  "Or are you a ghost."

            "Hell Mal," Jayne said in such a familiar way that most people would have thought it could be a memory.   

Mal, however, dismissed this out of hand; he had long ago learned how to not remember.  "You ain't real."

            "Well," Jayne laughed bitterly.  "I sure as hell ain't in you're head.  You never think a me.  You never think a anyone.  Wish I could say you were just self centered but you never did too much thinkin' on yerself neither so as far as I kin tell you don't do any thinkin' at all."

            "Well," Mal said, turning his head and looking at Jayne for the first time.  It was, without question, Mal's old friend.  Only the large man was somewhat translucent, like he was nothing more than a reflection off _Serenity's windshield.  He had several magazines of bullets around both shoulders and dozens of guns holstered at every point on his body.  He looked tired and weighed down by all the ammunition.  "Ain't you a sight."_

            "Yeah well," Jayne muttered.  "You don't look so good yerself.  All them ghosts catchin'  up with ya?"

            "Jayne," Mal snapped.  "Ain't no other ghost but you."

            "Really?" Jayne asked, a little flattered.

            "Yeah, now go away."

            "Y'ain't scared?" 

            "You ain't real."

            "What?" Jayne rasped.  "Don' ya see me here standin' in front a ya?"

            "That I do."

            "Well," Jayne said, looking translucent yet confounded by Mal's skepticism.  "There a reason you don't trust yer scenes."

            "Well," Mal said low in his throat, "'Cause there's all manner a things can make 'em twitchy.  Like, once, in the war, I ate this piece a cheese was rotten an' had a nightmare full a ghosts a hell of a lot scarier than you."

            "Damn it," Jayne muttered.  "If you ain't afraid a me this whole thing falls apart."

            "What whole thing?" Mal asked.

            "The thing where we save yer soul," Jayne muttered.

            "You gonna save my soul?" Mal laughed.  "By, what, teachin' me the true meaning of Christmas?"

            "Well," the large ghost muttered.  "Could happened."

            Mal was in hysterics.  "Oh, yes, yes, I can see that," he wiped away a mirthful tear.  "The ghost's of Christmas'll teach me how to be a good, God Fearing man."

            "Ok now," Jayne grumbled. "You kin make all the ***** comments ya want.  I only gotta tell you yer gonna get met by three more spirits."

            "And will they all be as charming as you?" Mal quipped with an annoyingly flippant smile on his face.

            "Damn it Mal, this is serious," Jayne snapped.  "Now, Good Lord never seen fit ta give me a chance like this an' I ain't gonna let'ch snark yer way through it."

            "Sorry," Mal said, trying hard not to giggle.  "You were sayin' about the sprits."

            "They're gonna come and there gonna teach ya stuff and yer gonna listen," Jayne said, pointing a phantom Vera at Mal's head.  "Ya understand."

            "Oh, very well," Mal said, forcing himself not to smile.

            "Good," Jayne said.  "Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one."

            "Jayne, there ain't no bells on this ship."

            "You know what yer problem is," Jayne said, his translucent form growing fainter and fainter.  "You just gotta have a little faith in people."  And then he was gone.  

            Mal sat on his bed and starred at the space Jayne had just occupied, or Jayne's ghost had just occupied, or what Mal thought had been Jayne's ghost had just occupied.

            "******," Mal muttered, blinking a few times and letting out one last gaspy laugh.  "That was one crazy *****." And with that he closed his eyes and fell immediately asleep.

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PASTS

            Much to Mal's surprise, he was awoken when the bell stroke one and a bright light flooded into his room.

            "Wha'the," he muttered, pushing himself up onto his elbows.  He blinked, several times, and the light seemed to take the form of an older man, with dark skin and white hair that surrounded his head in a somewhat unsettling halo.  Mal knew, in his heart, that the man standing in front of him was Shepard Book, but at the same time, he knew he'd never seen or met this man before.

            "I don' suppose you'd be the specter who Jayne said would be stopin' by?" Mal asked, not bothering to sit up.

            "I am," the ghost said, his voice was weathered and wholesome and Mal couldn't help but like it.

            "Oh, well then," Mal said, clearing his throat and sat up.  For some reason Mal felt he needed to show respect to this luminous stranger.  "Ah, you wanna . . . um, sit down or . . ."

            "I'm here to work Captain Reynolds," The man said.  "We got a lot to see and you ain't got much time."

            "What, my soul's on a timer?" Mal asked.  "You tellin' me I'm gonna kick soon?"

            "I have but one night with you and we have many things to see."

            "Who are you?" Mal asked.

            "I am the ghost of Christmas pasts."

            "My past?"

            "All our pasts."

            "I don' wanna here no story 'bout a babe in a manger."

            "Like I said," the ghost chuckled.  "I don't have much time.  Perhaps we should stick with your past.  Come," he said, stretching out his hand.  "We got a long way to go."

            For a reason Mal didn't quite understand, he reached out and touched the shepherd's hand.  He could feel chills run over his body, like a cold bite of peppermint ice-cream or a playfully thrown snowball dripping down the back of his collar.  And suddenly he was not in his small room in Serenity, but rather in a large open space under the stares.  There was the familiar compactness of his home planet of Shadow's dirt underneath his feat and the sounds of cattle, which had lulled him to sleep throughout his childhood could be heard under this sounds of the ruckus party around him.

            "Do you know this place?" Book asked.

            "Know it? Mal asked with a laugh.  "I grew up here, this is my ma's ranch.  Why, look, that's old Hugh, and Jinxiey boy, and Tom Cat, Hey, TOM!"

            "They can't see you," the ghost said.  "We are just shadows impeaching on their world."

            "Right," Mal said, clearly disappointed.  Still, his eyes were open and wide as he scanned the field in front of him.  

            "Is there something, or maybe someone, you're looking for?" Book asked.  

            "Well," Mal said, his voice oddly strained.  "It's jus' I . . . I ain't seen my mother since, well, since . . ."

            "She's right over there," Book said, pointing to a large fur tree in the center of a, presently, unused corral.  She was standing on a soap box, looking radiant, her hair was pulled up revealing a graceful neck that seemed always to be laughing and her eyes shimmered.

            "Kay, Key!" She yelled, ringing the large bell that she used to call everyone to dinner every night.  The hands were all trained to stop and listen at the sound of that bell, a wonderfully expectant quiet fell on the crowd.  "Y'all havin' a good time."

            There was a cry of hoots and hollers from the crowed.

            "Well I'm glad!" She said.  Her voice seemed to glow, It mad Mal feel warmer than he'd felt in over twenty years.  "Y'all know what day it is!"

            "Christmas!" The cheer came out.

            "Well," she laughed. "Y'all are wrong!  It's Christmas Eve yet fer another ten minutes.  And there's only one way ta bring in Christmas, Malcolm."

            And then mal saw the most amazing thing.  Himself as a boy, no older than ten, so excited by the night and the party and the spirit of joy that surrounded the corral that he didn't show his exhaustion at being out of bed so late.  The boy's eyes were bright and innocent and glistening with nervous excitement.

            "And low," He said, his voice was clear and eager with childish innocence and wonder. "There were shepherds watching their flocks by night . . ."

            "You used to love that story," Book said.  "You used to put so much faith in it."

            "I was a kid," Mal said gruffly.  "I didn't know any better."

            "Not just when you were a kid," Book said, and the scene changed.  They were no longer on Shadow, but they were still in the middle of a large, outdoor Christmas party.  

            "*******," Zoe laughed.  "Where did you get this wine, Sarg?"

            "Part of being a good commander is knowing how to provide for a company," a younger, less innocent but, as of yet, still gracious Malcolm Reynolds said.  "Only the best for my boys."

            "And girls," Zoe said, lifting her tin cup, filled nearly to the brim with cheep wine.  

            "And my very pretty, very frightening, girls."

            Zoe laughed, as did Jannette and Cindy, and Josy.  Mal had forgotten that he'd taken so many women into battle, that he'd left so many on the field.  As he glanced around at the swarm of people he'd, at one time, had under his command, the swarm of people he'd gladly have died for as many times as possible, a swarm of the braves, most dedicated, most moral, most convicted, all around best people he'd ever known.   And they were all dead, every single one of them; every one but him.

            "I don't want to be here, spirit," Mal said, his voice was thin.

            "Why?" Book asked.  "This seems to be a jovial enough place."

            "There all dead."

            "This is the past, they are not dead yet."

            "Soon enough," Mal spat.  "They in the middle of a ************* war!  What the hell right do they have to be celebrating?!"

            "The stars are shining, a quiet has fallen on the battle field," Book said.  "There is laughter and wine, good friends and they are alive.  What right do they have not to celebrate?"

            Mal didn't answer, he just looked at the scene in front of him, furious. 

            "You know that most will die before the end of the year," Book said.

            "All but Zoe," Mal muttered.  "And she dies soon 'nuff after that."

            "Do you honestly begrudge them their last Christmas?" Book asked.

            Mal didn't have an answer.

            "As long as we live, there is reason to celebrate and thank God for his many gifts."

            "Gifts," Mal harrumphed.  "Would that be the suffering or the death, that God gave these people?"

            "You used to have eyes that saw, and ears that heard," Book said, nodding towards the group.

            "Alright now," young, Mal, unfettered by bitterness and sorrow, said, "We all got our wine an' before we get stinkin' drunk, there's some words I feel we need ta say."

            "Better hurry," a young man, no older then 19, named Hennson called out.  "We all know how well Cindy holds her wine."

            A roar erupted from the assembled group.  Cindy, a not quite pretty woman who did nothing to help her dowdy appearance, turned to Hennson with a quick venimance, "Be careful buddy boy, I got a big knife and I know where you sleep!"

            The group laughed again, hardier, and it took a full five minutes for young Mal to calm them.  Finally, as the giggles died down, the Sargent was able to say, "I wanna propose a toste, on Christmas Eve, to God, or fate, or the good force, or whatever you chose to belive protects us, and gives us good food, and good wine and good friends."

            "Come on, Sarge," an older man named Robby, called from the back.  "We wanna drink."

            "A toast to all that's good!" Sgt. Malcolm Reynolds said, raising his glass.

            "All that's good!" the company echoed and as the sweet wine touched their lips, the scene faded into darkness.

            "Good," Mal grumbled.  "It abandoned them, us."

            "Are you so sure?" Book asked.  "Turn and look."

            Mal did as he was told and found himself in _Serenity's dinning room around the table only a very few years ago.  Zoe was there, still alive, her belly swelling with the child she was going to give birth to in late January.  Wash was sitting next to her; Mal was shocked by how much younger the pilot looked.  Inara was there, looking as beautiful as any Christmas angel, and Jayne strong, ruddy, and very much alive. _

            "Oh," Zoe moaned, pushing a plate of food away.  Real food, cranberry sauce and stewed turkey and green beans and real rolls.  It was a feast unlike any Mal had seen since.  "I think I'm gonna be sick . . ."

            "What do you need, Honey?" Wash asked, grabbing his beloved wife's hand with one of his and stroking her arm with the other.  "I can run and get anything."

            "Oh," Zoe said again, laughing, "Well, if you could get this baby out of me so there's more room for my stomach."

            "I'll see what I can do," Wash laughed, then turning to Mal, said "We've got an extractor in the Infermary, right?"

            "Got a laser saw," Mal offered.

            "Not good enough," Zoe insisted.  "I'm fine, dear, really."

            "You gonna finish what's on yer plate?" Jayne asked, eyeing the half eaten meal greedily.

            "Please," Zoe said, pushing the plate across the table.  

            "Do you remember this Christmas," Book asked the older Mal.

            "Yeah," Mal said, his voice tight.  "I don' wanna see anymore."

            "Why?" Book asked.  "I'll admit that this is not the most joyious celibration I have to show you, but . . ."

            "No!" Mal yelled.  "I don' wanna see it!"

            "Perhaps if we hurry through the night," Book said, and suddenly it was very late and Zoe and Wash had gone to their bed and Jayne was cleaning off the rest of the Christmas feast, leaving the younger Mal to walk Inara to her shuttle.

            "Not this," the older Mal said.  "I don' wanna see this."

            But the spirit was merciless and he was forced to watch as his younger self.  Drew the beautiful woman to her shuttle door.  "Well, then," he said, a little awkwardly.  "Here we are."

            "Yes," Inara answered, smiling up at him.  "Here we are."

            "Hope you had a good Christmas."

            "Very good, thank you," Inara said.  "You were really too generous."

            "Nah," Mal said, shrugging.  "That dress was just too pretty not to buy you."

            "Well," Inara said, blushing and looking down at the ground.  A sly smile flickered across her face and the older Mal, the one who knew what came next tried to close his eyes.  But whether by some cruelty of the spirit or, perhaps, some devious division in his will, he could not look away.

            "Look up," The companion said, glancing to the top of her doorway.

            "Wha?" the younger Mal said, glancing up to discover a quaint bow of mistletoe hanging just between his head and Inara's.  "Oh."

            "What are you going to do Captain?" Inara asked.

            "Well," The younger man said, smiling like a rouge.  "It's Christmas, that's mistletoe, I don't see that I have much of a choice."  He leaned forward and their lips touched.

            The Older Mal finally pulled his eyes away from the kiss, he didn't need to watch it, he could remember it all too clearly.  It haunted him, just as Shepherd Book was haunting him at this moment.  The feel of her lips, the smell of her perfume, the softness of her hair, it was all burned into his memory.  It wasn't his first kiss, and it hadn't been his last, for he'd found many women to romance as he tried to drive the memory of that one kiss away.    But still, it clung to him, the one and only kiss that had ever truly stirred his heart, the only kiss that had left him breathless.  He hadn't caught his breath yet.

            "Fine," the older Mal yelled to Book.  "I've seen all the happiness that I lost.  I seen everything that's driven me to this point.  I get it."

            "Tell me what you get?" Book said.

            "I had the Christmas spirit or whatever the hump you want me to have.  I knew about Christmas, I knew how to have a good time, I knew how to celebrate and be thankful fer what I had.  But I lost it."

            "You did," Book nodded.

            "'Cause I lost them," Mal said, glancing longingly at Inara's image as she came out of the Kiss, her eyes wide with wonder, a smile twitching on the corners of her mouth.  "I lost my Mother, the Ranch, I lost my troop, I lost the war, I lost Zoe, Inara, Jayne . . ."

            "You still have Wash."

            "Wash," Mal spat.

            "You blame him for Zoe's death."

            "Was that baby killed her.  She would have had no baby if she had no husband."

            "And Inara, is it Wash's fault she left?"

            Mal swallowed the lump in his throat.  "This is the past," Mal said, tears were creeping out of the corners of his eyes.  He was too proud to wipe them away.  "Why the hell bring it up."

            "Because we are little more than an accumulation of our past," Book said.  "You know what you feel, but what you don't realize is that, by ignoring why you feel it, you have lost all you're power to change it."

            "So you're a what now, psychologist?"

            "You are not hopeless," Book said, his form was beginning to glow and somehow, at the same time, fade.  "You've just forgotten where hope lies."

            "I ain't quite clear on the difference," Mal said.

            "You don't have to be," Book said, his light was so bright that Mal was practically blinded.  "Just don't be afraid to Remember."  

            And then the light was gone, and Book was gone, and Mal was alone in his dark room.

            "Well," His said, gasping a little as he slouched on his bed.  "That was . . ." but he had no words.  For a very long time, he just starred at the wall across from him, lost in thousands of memories he'd wanted to forget. 

THE GHOST OF CHIRSTMAS PRESENT

            He didn't know how much later, but it was a goodly amount of time, he heard a bell strike two.  "Now what," he muttered, with untold forbearing.

            "Come on up Cap!" the cheerful voice of a young girl said, echoing from the hallway above his room.  "Know me better."

            "What the?" He said, his natural curiosity and obsessive protectiveness of his ship propelling him up the hatch and out the door.  When he reached the hallway he was affronted by a host of wonderful smells, Turkey, cranberry sauce, Yams, green beans, Ham, Apple Pie, walnuts, ale, and more smells so sweet he couldn't even name them all.  And again the voice, which was very familiar and yet, he knew he'd never heard it before, called out "Come on in, Cap, and know me better!" 

            "Who," Mal asked, steping causiously into the kitchen, which was magically filled with a feast of real food large enough to feed a goodly sized town.  "Exactly are you?"

            "Well, I'm the ghost a Christmas present!" The voice said cheerily from some location Mal couldn't quite see.  "Get it, it's a pun!" 

            "Very clever," Mal said, trying to sound like the girl's voice alone didn't warm his heart and make him want to laugh for sheer joy.  "Where exactly are you?"

            "Oh, I'm right here!" the voice said as a pretty young girl with a round face, brown eyes and brown hair adorned with silver Christmas tinsel popped her head out from behind the kitchen.  She had oven mitts on and in her hands she was holding a tray of gingerbread cookies in all sorts of shapes.  Mal knew, in his heart that this girl was Kaylee Frye, and he knew that he loved her dearly as a sister.  But how he knew these things mystified, him, because he'd never meet the girl before.  "Wanna cookie?"

            "You don' look like any ghost I've ever seen, nor heard tell of."

            "Well," the girl said smiling at him broadly.  "I'm a very special ghost."

            "Are you now, little specter?"

            "Yes I am cap'in," she said, bowing her head. "An' yer gonna come with me and see all the great things you miss out on."

            "Do I have a choice in this matter?" Mal asked, watching as the girl, or perhaps, ghost, put a tray of cookies down on the counter and gingerly picked up a small one shaped like a heart.  She tossed it from hand to hand for a few seconds, waiting for it to cool.   When the temperature was finally satisfactory, she grabbed the cookie and broke it neatly down the middle, handing a half to the captain.  "Here," She said, smiling at him, all the stars in all the heavens seemed to shimmer in her eyes.  "Take a bite."

            Mal didn't like Gingerbread, and he knew that eating any food a ghost would give him could lead to the worst sort of ramifications.  But he couldn't say no to the pretty beaming girl.  "Kay," he said, setting his teeth in the soft, brown cookie.

            The sensation seemed to set him on fire.  He'd never tasted anything so delicate, and yet, so wholesome.  The world, with the exception of the pretty ghost, seemed to swirl around him and Serenity faded into the sea of color and mal realized that they were gliding over a pretty white countryside.

            "Where are we?"  Mal asked once every last morsel of the cookie had dissolved, leaving a wonderfully sweet taste in his mouth.

            "This is Flagstaff," Kaylee said simply, reaching her hands into her pockets and pulling out wads of what looked like glitter.  She'd let it go, and it would drift down onto the planet below.  "Flagstaff on Christmas."

            "What are you doing?" Mal asked.

            "Wha'da'ya mean?" Kaylee said, for a moment taken a little aback.

            "With the glitter I the pockets . . ."

            "Oh," She said, laughing.  "I'm spreading Christmas Joy."

            "You do that do you?"

            "Yep."

            "I thought Christmas Joy is something each person's gotta find fer themselves," Mal said, fully believing that he'd discovered a flaw in the ghost's holiday mission.  

            "My joy falls on everyone what want's it Cap'n," Kaylee said.  "If you don't want it, it'll slide right off of you and find someone else to cheer.  No one's forcin' anyone ta do anything."

            "Glad we got that all cleared up," Mal said, his voice trailed a little bit.  He was being distracted by what he saw below him.  Each house, each home, seemed open to him.  Family's with nothing, with less than nothing, people who had to struggle for each meal, mother who'd lost children and children who'd lost parents, old people who could barely walk and see and young people who were so thin as to suggest they would not make it through the winter were all touched by a shimmering piece of Kaylee's glitter and their hearts were filled with Joy.  There were Christmas carols sung, gifts exchanged and love shared between people who, the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year were miserable and heartbroken.  

            "Oh," Kaylee said, noticing something far, far below them in one of the larger cities.  "We gotta stop by here.  Every year they make Eggnog on Christmas."

            The pair drifted down until their feet were touching the cold compressed snow that made up the city's streets during the winter time.  They stood in front of a bar called, The Cooked Goose, it was little more than a wooden shack, but the warm sounds of men laughing could be heard from the street.

            "Wash wanted to go out and get Eggnog," Mal said, and for a reason he didn't quite understand, he felt sad.

            "Did he?" the ghost said coyly.  "Well, wha'da'ya know?"  With that she walked into the bar, not bothering to use the door, but passing straight through the wooden walls.  Mal, eager to stay with the pretty little ghost, followed without questioning the physics.  Inside it was dark, lit mostly by oil candles, and a large fire in the middle of the room.  There were about three groups of men singing three different Christmas Carols in three different keys, and then, a fourth group who were in the middle of a brudy drinking song.   Men and the few women had to yell to be heard over the commotion, but every voice was filled with joy and gladness.

            "Don'cha' just love this place, Cap?" Kaylee asked, her nose scrunching in absolute delight.  "Sprit a Christmas is so thick in here ya'd need a fourteen watt power welder ta cut through it."

            Mal laughed and glanced around the jovial room.  "Don' suppose I could get me some of that eggnog, now, could I?" he asked.

            "Nope," the girl said, wagging her head.  "Yer just a specter, we ain't really here.  But, ah, ya might do well ta go over to the fire," she said, pointing to the middle of the bar where a group of Men were sitting, laughing and drinking, with their feet on the hearth and large cups filled with eggnog in their hands.  

            "Why what's . . ." Mal asked, and then he realized, that in the middle of this group of men was Wash, telling stories, being clever, and having a better time than anyone had had on _Serenity in recent memory.  He started walking closer to the pilot, straining his ears to hear the familiar voice, longing to be one of the men with their feet on the hearth laughing at jokes, and having not a care in the world for one day at least._

            "And then," Wash gasped.  "And then he says to me.  Make the boat go faster!"

            The crowd of men burst into laughter yet again.

            "I say, 'Captain, what do you want me to do? Go out and push?'"

            More laughter.  

            "So then he gets cranky and pulls out his gun! We're being chased by Reveres though atmo in this damn tricky terrain and he thinks his gun is gonna scare me."     

            "OH god," one man said, "I think my side's a gonna burst!"

            "But how'd ya get out'a it?" Another man asked.

            "Oh," Wash said casually, the way only a good storyteller can.  "I told him if he didn't want to be turned into Sunday's dinner and Sunday's suite he oughta prep the engine fer a full burn."

            "And you got away?" a third guy asked.

            "No actually, we were eaten alive," Wash said, straight faced.

            There was a silent pause and then the whole group of men started laughing again.  Mal, much to his surprise, was laughing too. 

"Why don't you leave then," One of the men asked, sucking in a serious breath between hearty chuckles.  "If you're captain's such a *********."

            "Ah, well," Wash said, looking down into his mug of eggnog.  "Guy needs me.  And Simon needs me, I'd hate ta be in that kids shoes whenever it's just him and Mal."

            "Why?" Mal asked, forgetting that he couldn't be heard.  "I do alright by Simon."

            "Besides," Wash said, glancing up and into the fire.  "Zoe was absolutely dedicated to the guy, he saved her life.  And if he hadn't done that I would never have met her, and the best years of my life wouldn't have happened."  He looked sad and introspective for a moment, but then, with a deep breath and a set jaw, he thrust his cup upward.  "To Captain Malcolm Reynolds, the biggest ******** in the universe, may he figure out how to be less of one."

            "Cheers," All the men said, banging their mugs together, before taking a deep draught of eggnog and letting the conversation drift to other, more merry topics.

            "See," Kaylee said, over his shoulder.  "You could'a been here, but no, ya had to be a sour puss."

            "I do alright by Simon," Mal snapped at her, as if she'd been the one to criticize him.  

            "Do you?" Kaylee asked, looking at him skeptically.

            "That boy has everything he needs, his sister too."

            "Do they?" Kaylee asked again.

            "Take us there," Mal said ordered. "An' I'll prove it."

            "Yer wish," the girl said, blinking her eyes that held the heavens and, suddenly, the bar and the noise was gone and everything was dark and silent with the exception of a soft humming.  

            "Where are we?" Mal asked.

            "Ya wanted ta see how Simon an' River spent Christmas," The ghost's voice explained, although, in the dark, Mal couldn't see her.  "This is River's Christmas."

            Before Mal could ask what Kaylee ment by that, there was a pop and a creek as the hatch to River's room was pushed open and the dim light from the hallway flooded the room.  

            "**********," Mal muttered, as he saw what his young ward had done with her quarters.  The walls were covered with black and white drawings, frighteningly good yet eerie and surreal.  The pictures were layered, six or seven deep on every wall, and small glass bottles that had once held medicine were pilled, like building blocks, in various corners.  Other than that there was nothing in her room, absolutely nothing.  It was an eerie room, not a room Mal would have wanted to spend a long time in, none the less, all his time.  

            "River," Simon's voice called down from the top of the hatch.  It sounded light, and kind and happy and tired.  "I've brought you Christmas dinner."

            "Bring me food and bring me wine," River muttered melodically, although her eyes were distant and her voice was cracked from lack of use. "Bring me pine logs hither."

            "Good King Wenceslas," Simon said with a smile in his voice as he struggled down the ladder with a tray full of food.  "It's good to see that you're in the Christmas sprit."

            "Good King Wenceslas looked out on the Feast of Stephen," River said, emphasizing the day, correcting her brother.

            "I," Simon said, drawing out the word as he awkwardly reached the ground.  "I'm not quite sure when that is."

            River glanced down at the mess of blankets around her.  Her posture was defeated, broken, tears were streeming out of her eyes.

            "No, _Mei mei," Simon said, setting the tray down and hurrying over to his crying sister.  Mal found himself following, yearning to reach out and comfort the girl as best he could. _

            "Don't cry," her brother soothed.  "I've got a Christmas present for you."

             She looked up at her brother almost hopefully and, as if to obay, wiped the tears off of her cheeks.

            "Here," Simon said, handing her a small wooden box that had been on his supper tray.  "Merry Christmas," he said eagerly, as she undid the knot in the twine and carefully undid the lid.  River gasped from sheer joy, and when she looked up at her brother again there were tears of joy in her eyes.  

            "What?" Mal said, trying to peek over the boy's shoulder into the box.  "Wha'd he give 'er?"

            "Watch," Kaylee said.  The ghost looked like she was on the verge of tears as well.

            Very carefully, as if handling fine crystal that could shatter any moment, she lifted a ripe orange out of the box.  She pressed the fruit to her nose and inhaled deeply, taking in the sent of the rind more than the fruit. "Brightly shone the moon that night," She told her brother, nearly sobbing from gratefulness.  "Though the frost was cruel."

            "It's an orange," Mal said, turning to ghost, who was wiping tears away from the corners of her eyes with the selves of her golden gown.  "I mean, their rear, yeah, but they ain't impossible to be had."

            "You know the last time River saw the color orange?" Kaylee asked.  "There ain't a thing in here that's that color."

            Mal glanced around. The room was creepy in its predominately black and white tones.

            "An' how 'bout the last time she had fruit?"  Kaylee said.  "You sure don' give it to her.  An' can tell ya, it took all a Simon's clever plannin' and schemin' ta get that fer her, sneak it past ya."

            Mal suddenly felt very guilty, as he watched the girl place the orange on the table in font of her and stare at it as Simon told her she had to eat it that day, that it was too good a treat to let spoil.  He knew that, had he learned of the fruit before this moment, he probably would have chewed the boy out for doing something behind his back, he might have threatened to take away River's medicine again, or cut the boy's food rations for the day.  He would certainly have taken the orange away, and in that act taken a wellspring of simple Joy away from the siblings, who seemed to have so little joy every other day of the year.   

            "I always think of Oranges around Christmas time," Simon told his sister, his voice tingling with enthusiasm. "You remember how Mom would put them in the toes of our stockings and we weren't allowed to eat any of the candy until we've finished our oranges on Christmas Morning?"

            River smiled up at him, but her eyes were lost, unfocused.  She clearly couldn't pin down the memory.  

            Simon's smile faded as he reached up to his sister, "It doesn't matter," he told her lovingly.  "What matters is that you and I are together and--"

            "' Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger,'" The girl said, turning her haunting, brimming, brown eyes to her brother.  "'Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer.'"

            Simon stared at her for a sad moment, and then cleared his throat and started talking again.  "I don't know if you know this," he said, trying to sound excited again. "But we're on a planet, we landed last night."

            "When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even," She said smiling up at him, like she was trying to lift his spirits.

            "That's right," Simon said.  "It was snowing.  Maybe, since it's Christmas, I could talk the Captain into letting you out for a few minutes. You could look out the window, see the world, white and perfect."

            She laughed, it was a week laugh, rusty and seldom used. "Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing," She said, giggling as if she were telling a joke and couldn't keep the snickers of anticipation out of her voice.  "You who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing."

            Simon chuckled softly, whether because he got River's joke or because his heart was so tied to hers that any lift in her sprit caused a lift in his, Mal was not sure.  For even as the brother and sister began to laugh they faded into a swirl of white; Mal watched River's sweet laughing face until all he could see was the blinding whiteness of a violent blizzard.  

            "Wait, no!" Mal said.  "GO back!"

            "Why?" Kaylee said, stepping up so she was standing besides the Captain. "The rest a the night she'll be mutterin' nonsense and he'll be lookin' all sad.  Thought you said you'd had enough of that."

            Mal, hearing his own words echoed back to him, felt for their sting.  "What'd she mean, when she said  'Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger, Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer'?"

            "Well," Kaylee, said, looking very said.  "T'ain't exactly my place ta say, but if things don' change, I don' see there being much of a River in the future, there's hardly any one now."

            "But," Mal stammered.  "She wasn't that bad.  I mean, she, she was allways a little nuts, but . . ."

            "Cap'n, you knew that those men had placed monsters in her head, and then you put her in a place were she couldn't escape them."

            Mal felt his throat constrict, "It can stop though, right?  It ain't too late.  If I got her outta there, let her round the ship, on the planet even, she could . . . she could come back, right?"

            The ghost chewed tentatively on her lower lip, and glanced up at Mal, almost regretfully.  "We ain't got much time," She said apologetically. 

            "Why?" Mal asked, "What do you mean?"

            "Christmas is one day a year, an' my day's almost up."

            "What?" Mal said, horrified, "No."

            "Sorry, Cap'n," She said.  "But you could keep me alive."

            "What I have to do?" Mal asked, the slightest touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Clap?"

            "Naw," the girl said, she was starting to fade, just as Simon and River had moments ago, "Remember, I'm a sprit of Christmas, keep it in yer heart and I'll always be there."  And she was gone.

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS FUTURES 

            "No," Mal said.  An odd moistness was in his eyes and his hands were shaking.  He'd lost so much, and now, when he was starting to, longing to, snatch what he still had and redeem it, nurture it, and celebrate it.  Wash was a good friend, better than Mal deserved, he needed to be told that.  Simon was a good kid, an amazing kid, his work needed to be rewarded.  And River, she was too precious to just leave lost in a blizzard to die of the cold and be frozen by the snow.

            Suddenly, a hand was on his shoulder.  It was not placed there, it was simply there, and a shiver flew down his spine: not a pleasant shiver, like the kind that came when the Ghost of Christmas Pasts had touched him, but rather a horrible shiver, like when you know some evil thing is following you on a dark street or you hear a woman's high pitched scream.

            Very slowly and carefully, Mal turned to find himself looking eye to eye with the most non-distinct man he'd ever seen.  The only thing that was at all unusual about the man, dressed blandly in a black suit, were a pair of bright, almost neon, blue operating gloves on his hand.  Still, this man filled Mal with an almost unspeakable dread, as if he were looking death itself in the face.

            "So," the Captain finally said, trying to force his voice to sound nonchalant and brave.  "I meet the ghost of Christmas pasts and presents, that would then make you the ghost of Christmas futures, right?"

            The man nodded.  It was a somewhat disconcerting nod and Mal took no pleasure in being right.

            "Well then," he said, with more forced bravado.  "I guess you have things you'll be wanting ta show me."

            Another nod, and a hair of a smile.  Mal wondered how such a normal, bland man could appear so very evil.  And then he wondered how a spirit of Christmas, any Christmas, could seem so evil.

            The snow in front of them parted, as if it was a curtain in a great theater, and the man walked through it.  Mal followed to find himself in a warm and somewhat merry setting.  It was obviously the hold of a mid-sized cargo ship, but the deck had been dressed for Christmas, with a large tree and several long strings of lights.  It was beautiful, Mal found himself thinking, which was odd, because he had not thought anything at all was beautiful for many years, and he had never considered a cargo bay beautiful in his entire life, regardless of it's decorations.

            "Why are we here?" Mal asked, not turning to look at the blue-handed ghost.  "Come to think of it, where's here?"

No answer came, instead, one blue-hand raised and pointed to a door out of witch some man Mal'd never seen before emerged, followed closely by Wash.

            "I thought you knew him," the man said.  His voice was gravely, but had a kind almost compassionate intonation.

            "Well, yeah, I did know him, I guess," Wash answered.  "Come to think of it, I was probably the best friend he had, I mean, he only occasionally threatened to kill me."            The man laughed, "If you want to try to go to the funeral, I'm sure we could arange something."

            "They're having a funeral?" Wash asked, bewildered. 

            "It doesn't say, I just assumed . . ."

            "I can't think of a soul who'd go to it," Wash said shaking his head.  "I mean, I'm sad, I guess, but if any man ever deserved a quick bullet to the brain, he did."

            "That's very harsh," The man replied, surprised by Wash's uncharacteristic bitterness.  A trait, by the way, which surprised Mal as well.

            "He would have been the first to say it," Wash shrugged, a little guiltily.  "I mean, I'm sad enough that he's dead, I suppose, but in a lot of ways, the guy who was my friend died a while ago.  I've moved on, glad the rest of the world's got a chance."

            "So," the man said, patting the pilot supportively on the shoulder.  "You won't be needing any time off then?"

            "Not for this, although, there is this amazing race track on Syphris, so I was thinking, since were scheduled to be there in a week or so . . ."

            The man laughed, "Maybe, if you're a good boy, Santa will give you that time off for Christmas."

            Wash joined him in his laugher as they walked out of the doors on the other side of the cargo bay, "Well, I guess there's always next year."

            "Who were they talkin' 'bout?" Mal demanded coldly.  He glanced at the eerie blue-handed man, who didn't look back.  He didn't answer either.

            "Kay," Mal said, a little forcefully, building up his courage, he steeped in front of the ghost and starred into it's small, hard, seemingly black eyes.  Mal had to fight the urge to run screaming, and it was only because there was no six-shooter strapped to his leg that he didn't try to blow the spirit away.  "I'm supposed ta be learnin' somethin' here, right?  This guy who died, who Wash cares nothin' for, I'm supposed to learn by his death.  But how can I if I don' know who he is."

            The ghost smiled at Mal again, which shut the Captain up as quickly as a bullet to the head would have.  Then the specter turned around, silently, and suddenly Mal noticed they were not in the large cargo bay anymore, but rather were in a large bedroom.  The walls were covered with interact tapestries and glistening mirrors, the floor with plush carpet and there was the elegant sounds of a violin being played softly but passionately floating in from an open window.

            Mal turned towards the music, towards the window, and saw a balcony with the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen sitting, smiling up gaily at the violin player, a handsome man with undeniably aristocratic features.

            "Inara," the Captain said beneath his breath, walking closer to her, through the French Doors, which were closed.

            "Oh, Benning," the woman said, laughing sweetly, her voice was like a thousand silver Christmas bells.   "That was absolutely beautiful."  

            "Well," he said, his voice lush but modest.  "It was inspired by you."

            Inara laughed again.  "You are too good to me."

            "I beg to differ my lady," he said, falling to his knees.  "You are too good to me.  No one I know can claim such a comely prize."

            "Well," Inara said.  "This past year has been the best year of my life.  Few companions are able to find someone whose passions are as compatible as ours.  Even fewer are offered as generous a position as you've given me here.  Of the blessings I thank God for on this night, you, my dear, are chief." She said, leaning down.  

            Mal burned with furry as he watched.  She had been the most amazing woman he'd ever known; she had been truly alive, truly vibrant and truly free.  And now here she was, sold, property of one man.  They played at love; the way Inara had played chess with Mal so many times back on _Serenity_.  He could see it in the way she moved.  Each touch was a calculation and each caress a result of reason and a twisted sort of manipulation.  The man, Benning, was getting what he paid for.  

            As he watched them kiss, he could feel hot bile eek up his throat.  He had known Inara did this sort of thing, but seeing it made him sick.  Especially after he'd watched the passion and purity their kiss.  It was sick, a perversion, and there was nothing he'd ever seen he hated more.

            "Take me away!" he said, spinning around and looking at the horrible blue-handed man in the eyes too disgusted by the scene in front of him to register the horror that chilled him every time he saw the man.  "I don' wanna see this."

            The man smiled at him, cruelly.  Mal was too upset to be terrorized. "I can't see this.  She's a whore, I get that, an' maybe if I was a little more charitable she'da stayed and we'd be all happiness and rainbows.  Kay, fine, point made.  Don' show me this.  Please," Mal begged.  "I don' wanna see this."

            Maybe the specter took compassion on him, or maybe it was just a step up in cruelty, but the world around him swirled and faded and instead of a lush and ornate room, Mal found himself in cold bareness of an alliance prison cell.

            "What the . . ." he muttered, looking around at annoyingly cream colored walls until his eyes rested on one familiar figure.

            Simon Tam, red eyed, pail skinned, was sitting hunched on his cot, much as River had been sitting on her bed in the Christmas Present.  He looked older, ages older, even though Mal knew with some certainty that this Christmas was not nearly far enough in the future to justify the weariness in Simon's eyes and the defeat in his stance.

            "No," Mal said, shaking his head.  "This ain't any better.  This is, this is . . ."

            His thoughts were interrupted by a crackle as the force-felid behind him was disengaged long enough to let a woman in.   It accrued to Mal that she looked very much like River, only much older, in her forties or fifties, and with a considerably saner look in her eyes.  Mal deduced she must be the Tam's mother.

            His deduction was sound, because Simon look up, shot the woman a cutting smile, and said, "Well, Merry Christmas, Mom, awful nice of you to find the time to visit."

            "Don't be like that," Mrs. Tam scolded.  "You know how hard it is for us to come here."

            "Oh," Simon sighed, shaking his head.  "Selfish me.  Of course, I would never expect you to interrupt your busy social life.  It must be quite full, what with the holiday season and all."

            "That not what I meant, Simon," She replied.  "And you know it."

            Simon swallowed hard and looked down at his hands, "Well, I . . ." he glanced up at her.  "I do thank you for coming."

            "You're my son," the woman said, leaning forward and touching her son's face tenderly.  "You're all I have left."

            "Spirit," Mal interjected, keeping his eyes focused on Simon, not daring to glance behind at the terribly normal face.  "Where's River?  She ain't  . . ." he wasn't sure which would be worse, knowing the young girl was dead, or knowing she'd been sent back to torture at the hands of the Alliance.  

            "We saw the Nutcracker," Mrs. Tam said chipperly. She was trying to drag Simon out of his sulk, but to Mal it proved a thankful distraction.  "It wasn't as good as when River was in it, of course, but still, the Clara they had seemed too – "

            "The world was brighter with River in it," Simon said.  

            There was a moment of sad silence, then, he added.  "Do you really think she's dead?"

            "Simon, stop, don't."

            "You still haven't told me if you saw the body."

            "Don't do this, they'll put you on the drugs again."

            "So what?" Simon said.  "Sanity in this place tends to be a disadvantage."  

            "I don't believe you just said that," Mrs. Tam gasped with conviction.  "My son is not a drug addict."

            "No," Simon said, looking at her critically.  "Your son is a kidnaper held under maximum security in a federal prison.  Drug addict would actually be a step up."

            "How could you do this," Mrs. Tam said, she was starting to sob.  Simon watched her critically, not moving.  "How could you put us through this."

            "Selfish me," Simon sighed, leaning his head on the wall.  "Everything's always about me.  Nothing was ever about River."

            "Can't you be kind and loving?" his mother demanded.  "On Christmas of all days I would think . . ."

            "It's gone," Simon answered, philosophically.  "All the kindness, all the love, it got used up.  I don't, I can't quite find it in me anymore.  And of all the places in the 'verse, I somehow doubt this is one where I could get more."

            "Don't speak in gorramn riddles," Mrs. Tam spat.  "This is why you're father and I don't come to see you."

            "It's my own fault," Simon said, nodding.  "All this, it's my fault."  He smiled at his mother; it was such a forlorn, ironic smile, that Mal felt a little angry, although he couldn't say at whom.  "At least you can tell people your son's accepted responsibility for his actions.  The doctor takes his medicine."

            "Your not a doctor, Simon," Mrs. Tam snapped.  "That's a title, an honor, you lost."

            Throughout the interview with his mother, the boy had been able to remain detached, but this last phrase, spat out so casually, so cruelly, hurt him.  He gasped, reacting to it as some would react to a physical blow. 

            "I'm sorry," Mrs. Tam said, composing herself.  "We've certainly hit an new low, flinging insults like children."

            Simon didn't answer, he just nodded, silently, spitefully.

            The next silent stretch was cold, Mal felt chilled.  It was too cold, apparently, because Mrs. Tam walked over to the forcefelid and yelled, "guard!"

            "You're leaving," there was dread in the boy's voice.

            "As you observed, Simon, It is the holiday season, Christmas day, in fact.  I had to miss the Copefields party to come see you."

            "Well," Simon said, not hiding his resentment.  "I suppose that was very generous of you.  If I remember correctly they always have the best goose pâté."

            "I do love you Simon," his mother said, once she'd walked out and the forcefelid was back in place.

            "I believe you," he said.  "And I wish I could say more."  

            Clearly not the response she was hoping for, Mrs. Tam took a deep breath, straightened her back, turned and left.  Simon was alone in his white room, as Mal looked on, almost as heartbroken as the boy.

"This ain't right,"  he muttered, then turning to the blue-hande spirit, he demanded, "Where am I?  I swore I'd protect these kids, what happened.  Am I in prison somewhere here too?"

            The ghost of Christmas futures looked at him and laughed.  It was a horrible, horrible laugh and Mal knew, suddenly and horribly, that in this future, he was dead.  That he died and Simon and River were caught.  He died and Inara didn't even notice.  He died and Wash didn't care.  "No," he said, yelling, trying to overpower the hysterical laughter of the blue-handed ghost.  "This ain't how it's gonna be played!  If I change then this all'll change with me, won't it?  I mean, what the hell kind of lesson would this be if I can't change these out-comes!"

            The laughter got louder, more hysterical and everything, Simon, his mother, the prison, even the ghost, faded into darkness.

            "I get it!" Mal yelled, hoping to appease somebody, the ghost, Jayne, God, anybody who could give him the power to erase what he'd just seen.  "What I got here's pretty great!  I need to celebrate, be thankful, be kind!  I see that, I understand!  Please, just, please I'd do anything, but don't let that be the future, don't let that be how it all ended . . ."  And his screams turned into sobs, which overpowered the laughter.  They seemed to echo and bounce off of the walls of an infinite blackness that wrapped its inky depths around the Captain.  Mal struggled against it, terrified that this darkness would be the last darkness he'd ever see, the finale darkness.  The more he struggled, the tighter it became untill he felt himself tip and fall.

            For a heartbeat he thought he was dead, then he hit the ground and he realized that, were he truly dead, the impact probably wouldn't have hurt quite so much.  He groaned and sat up, opening his eyes on a new day.  

            Yes, the room was his own, the blankets were his own, the bed was his own, the ship was his own. He'd fallen out of bed, tangled in his blankets.  Everything was calm, quiet, as it should be, the only noise was the quiet humm of _Serenity as she kept them all alive._

            "*********************," Mal muttered with joyful wonder as he stood and hurried to his hatch.  "It was a dream, the whole gorram thing was a dream."  And then, the significance of what he said hit him.  "The whole Gorramn thing was a dream!" 

He climbed up quickly and, once he reached the top, was delighted to see Wash, still his pilot, and starring out into the darkness of space.

            "Wash!" Mal called, his voice was edgy, he wasn't quite fully awake, despite his energy, his mind was still foggy, full of images he didn't want to ponder, memories that he prayed weren't real.  

            "Hey Mal," the pilot said slowly, swiveling his chair around, smiling down at his captain with comfortable familiarity.  "What ya so excited about?"

            "You, ah?" he almost laughed, but managed to check himself. "You know where Simon an' River are?

            "No," Wash said with a shrug.  "Last I heard they were makin' decorations for a Christmas tree."

            "A gorramn dream," Mal muttered to himself, he couldn't stop from laughing this time.

            "I'm real surprised," Wash said, either not noticing or not choosing to mention his captain's odd behavior.  "Didn't think you'd let us have a tree.  Fire hazard and what not."

            "You, ah," Mal said, trying very hard to be serious.  "You talk to Zoe about this?"

            "Yeah," Wash nodded.  "She was surprised too."

            "And where is Zoe?"

            "Sleeping, I'm gonna join her in a minute, just wanted to make sure that comet the sensors picked up wasn't, you know, spinning wildly out of orbit or something."

            "Good," Mal said, smiling as broadly as Wash had ever seen him smile.  "You know Wash, you're a damn good pilot."

            "Ah, thanks, Mal," Wash said cautiously, tossing a concerned glance at captain over his shoulder.

            "I've been thinkin' you and Zoe, you don't get enough time away from the rest of the crew.  Maybe we should find us a nice out of the way planet where you two could sneak off for a bit."

            Wash spun his chair full around and starred at the Captain as if the man had grown horns and sprouted a tail.  "Did you hit your head sir?"

            "What?"

            "Are you sure you're all right?"

            "I'm fine, great, why?"

            "It's . . . Just,"  Wash stammered.  "You've never suggested that Zoe, that anyone, I should say, take a vacation. "

            "What," Mal shrugged.  "I can't be generous, it's Christmas time."

            "Ah, no," the pilot said.  "That's not . . ."

            "Good," Mal nodded curtly.  "Now, you say Simon an' River are still playin' with the tree?"

            Wash shrugged, "Last I heard."

            "And Kaylee, she gone to bed yet?"

            "If she did she didn't say goodnight to me."

            "I'll take that as a no," Mal nodded.  "Thanks Wash."

            "Well, Mal," Wash said, more than a little bewildered.  "You're welcome."

EPILOG:

Mal walked into the dinning room silently.  The lights were off and the room was filled with the soft glow of starlight.  It was kind of romantic, Mal thought as he carefully, quietly, inched his way down the stairs.  Once he reached the kitchen area he could hear breathing, he was not alone.  A few inches closer and he saw three body's, hunched on the chairs around the tree.  It was pretty, Mal had to admit.  Red and silver wires had been twisted together to make a sort of garland, and the picture River had drawn of an angel had been cut out and stuck more or less at the top, propped on lopsidedly on a pair of branches.  It was the pretties picture of an Angel Mal had ever seen, he took another silent step closer, and as he did that he heard the crisp sound of someone turning the page of a book.  With a mischievous smile, Mal realized that only two of those bodies were sound asleep.

            "Doctor?" Mal whispered.  In the near silent ship it was loud enough to jolt the young man, who was reading a book in the extremely dim light.  "Now that ain't hardly good for you're eyes. What goods a surgeon who can't see?"

            "Captain," Simon said, glancing up quickly.  He looked like he wanted to jump to his feet, but River was draped over him.  He had to carefully untangle himself before he could stand and creep over to the captain, carefully avoiding Kaylee's body sprawled on the floor.

            "I though I told you to take that tree down," Mal said with feigned crossness, once Simon had reached him.

            "Ah, yes sir, you, ah, you did."

            "And?"

            "Well, sir, you told us you expected it down by the time you woke up."

            "I'm woke up, it's still here."

            "I can take it down now, sir."

            "That ain't what I'm asking you, boy, I'm asking you why you disobeyed my ordered."

            "I, ah, I didn't sir, we, didn't, not  . . . not really."

            "As, forementioned, I am up, the tree is up, this seems to be a disobedience issue to me."

            "Well, sir, when we started taking down the tree it, well . . . River and I as children would sleep under the Christmas tree on Christmas eve and she'd been so excited about that and . . . well, Kaylee told us you usually didn't get up until 0600, so I thought if I could get us up earlier, around 0500, we could take down the tree, clean up the area, and . . . and still be obeying."

            "But that plan didn't seem to work too well."

            "No, sir," Simon said, looking towards the ground.

            "Well," Mal sighed.  "As it turns out, I'm glad."

            "Sir?"

            "I . . . the tree is nice.  Make's Kaylee happy, makes River happy, makes the kitchen smell all pine fresh."

            "Sir?"

            "Go sleep with your sister, Doctor," Mal said, then, catching himself.  "That's not what I . .  . I mean . . ."

            "Should I maybe go back to River, sir?" Simon asked, trying not too smile at the Captain's verbal slip.

            "Good plan," Mal nodded, "An I 'xpect ta see that tree there in the morning."

            "Thank you sir," Simon said, smiling with genuine gratitude at his captain before carefully stepping over Kaylee and easing his way back to the spot he'd vacated.  His movements must have woken his sister, just slightly.  Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him, smiling.  "In his master's steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted; Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed," she sung softly.

"Go back to sleep, Mei mei," Simon whispered, stroking her hair.  

She smiled sweetly up at him, closed her eyes and nodded, easing into unconsciousness, but not before she muttered melodically, "Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing, You who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing."

THE END

Good King Wenceslas looked out on the Feast of Stephen,  
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.  
Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel,  
When a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.

"Hither, page, and stand by me, if you know it, telling,  
Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?"  
"Sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain,  
Right against the forest fence, by Saint Agnes' fountain."

"Bring me food and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither,  
You and I will see him dine, when we bear them thither."  
Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together,  
Through the cold wind's wild lament and the bitter weather.

"Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger,  
Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer."  
"Mark my footsteps, my good page, tread now in them boldly,  
You shall find the winter's rage freeze your blood less coldly."

In his master's steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;  
Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.  
Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,  
You who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.


End file.
